


The Magnificent Bastards!

by pilotisms



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgard, Bad Flirting, F/M, Hate to Love, I'M WORLD BUILDING, Pre-Thor (2011), Prince Loki (Marvel), Prince Thor (Marvel), Reader-Insert, Rogue!Reader, lots of dragon age and DnD world building here, merry band of thieves, shameless changes to norse mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 03:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18306857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: You and your merry band of thieves rob Asgard's royal princes. Little do you know, one magic ring ends up intertwining your fates more than any of you would like. Enter shameless adventure.





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Starting another fic? Yeah, of course.

_ THIEVING BASTARDS, LYING SNAKES!  _

You’ve heard it all before, really, and it sounds no different coming from behind the makeshift gag that smothers the eldest son of Odin’s mouth. Beside the hulking prince sits his smaller and (thankfully) quieter brother – his dark eyes are set in a sort of malice that, you suppose, is supposed to scare you. 

(Surprise! It doesn’t.)

The two have a reputation (fearsome warriors and all that), but not nearly enough of one to stop you and your troublesome band of thieves from tempting a robbery. You’re a fugitive of the crown already (not by choice, of course). Not to mention Jarak, Taegan and Ogras don’t mind tagging on another hefty sum of gold onto their own bounties if it meant walking away with the boast of stealing from the two crowned princes of Asgard. It’s, yea, maybe a bit of a self-destructive mindset, but what’s a rogue to do?

Behave?

(Pfft.)

You toss your knives, daring the God of Lies with a mocking smirk as you hear Jarak descend into a cheerful baritone crescendo. The towering Qunari, an absolute lunatic on the lute, is bellowing out a swooping lyric of: “Gold! A shit ton of gold!”

“Shoulda had some a’ those shiny royal guards tag along, huh, boys?” you chirp, squatting and tapping Thor’s boot with the flat end of your knife, “Pity.”  


The ‘God’ squirms, groaning and trying his best to curse you out. You grin.

Taegan, the high elf, is laughing now, too – armfuls of gold are being dragged from the overturned carriage as Ogras, the dwarf and resident drunk, bellows out a curse and trips with a crate in his arms. Coins spill into the dirt and out tumbles a particularly pretty looking box.

_COURTESY OF BROKKR & EITRI _reads the top in scrawling letters.

Both of the Prince’s eyes widen. Loki blinks to his brother, brows twisted in a worried sort of way. Not so menacing now. Thor’s eyes bounce between you and the purple box.

And you narrow in, like a feline, on the prize. 

“What’s this, then?”  


“Open it!” Jarak yelps from his post in the overturned carriage, “Open it, Yri!”  


You like that nickname –  _mad, furious, wild,_ it says in your native tongue. Jarak, ever the poet, had thought it up.  _You’re reborn, kid,_ he’d said,  _lose the old name, You’re thick with thieves now._

You stand, ever graceful, and kick the box over. Scooping it up, you relish in the feverish panic that bubbles onto the faces of the two princes. 

“Oh? Should I not?” you jeer, “Should I put it back? Would you boys like me to put it back?”  


More smothered screams of protest.

(You open it anyways.)

Inside sits one single gold ring, perched upon crimson velvet. It’s pretty – _thick_ and ornate with Dwarven script on the inside. You weigh it in your palm. _This_ would sell for a pretty price. No doubt it’s a commission by Odin. Turning to eye the crate it had tumbled out of, you wonder how much the All Father would even miss it. 

You pluck it from the box, then, and  _suddenly_ the ring turns to two.

A single drip.

And  _boom,_ another gold band plunks into the dirt by your boots.

Huh, a  _magic_ ring?

_ Fun. _

You grin like a cat whose just murdered the whole hen-house and, if Loki hadn’t been tied to a carriage wheel and gagged, he might have admired it for a moment. He’s always loved cunning women – but  _you…_ you are  _very quickly_ climbing his list of most hated beings in this very realm. 

Your look is simply  _sinful,_ drenched in a blend of sarcasm and pity.

“Would you look at that?” you chirp, slipping the ring on. You fan your hand out, admiring it before kicking the new spare towards the brothers, “Keep that one. As a token.”  


Behind you, your merry band of thieves has already strapped their loot to their horses four.

Sheathing your dagger, you bend at the knees, dropping into a low squat in front of the royal pair. With a feigned smile, you pat each of their cheeks.

“Tell your daddy dearest the Magnificent Bastards send their regards.”   


You give the brothers a final smirk before sauntering over to your horse. You mount in one swift move, tugging your hood up. 

And with that, you and your band of bandits ride off with royal coin and  _Draupnir,_ leaving Thor and Loki to figure out how the hell they’re going to fix this mistake. 


	2. One.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn how you become a part of the merry band of thieves who call themselves the Magnificent Bastards. Thor and Loki plot.

_Ow_.  


The tavern table rocks on impact and the lithe frame of an Asgardian is suddenly doused in the warm froth of a hoppy mead as she reels from the kick to the chest. Around her, the bar’s patrons shout with raucous laughter as she rolls away from the gilded, armored hands scrambling for her. She falls from the table with a sturdy  _oof_ , before crawling underfoot, trying to duck and dodge the towering, golden royal guards hurtling Old Norse curses her way.

For the full-house of the Wulfshead Tavern, this wasn’t different from any other night. The tavern is on the outskirts of the realm’s capital, and if Odin’s personal hounds weren’t here wetting their appetites, then they were here serving warrants.

Tonight,  _you’re_  the unlucky one they’re trying to arrest.

You’re on the run; but, from the looks of it, you’re not getting very far.

You are quick, though, hiking yourself up on top of the tables and bounding around pints of ale and plates of meals as you spot a clearing by the stairs. You bolt, apologies flying from your lips as you balance on your toes and jump, landing a solid footing on the face of an unsuspecting guard in an inopportune place – behind you, the mad scramble has poured over and you yelp, bounding off the guards face up the banister of the stairs.

_ “Sorry!” _

You can hear the commotion of a fall behind you; sure enough, the guards are struggling over their fallen compatriot with a boot shaped dent in his helmet.

It gives you time, though barely enough to slip into the crowd on the upper mezzanine.

Tugging your hood up high and ducking behind a group of Elven mercenaries, the you settle into slouching over a warm pint of abandoned mead and listening in on the trio of bards perched atop the tables in the center of the balcony.

They’re singing, though not well, and the sonnet is struck to the off-tune beat of a lute. The instrument looks incredibly small in the grip of the tattooed Qunari strumming it – his horns tower upwards, knocking the chandelier as he side-steps his Elven counterpart. The sandy-haired elf seems content on being the center of attention, as a cluster of maidens have opted to staring.

You watch as the elf tosses a wink, and the Dwarf beside him tosses back a pint.

The sight is so…  _odd_ that you nearly miss the royal guards that have begun to comb through the tavern’s mezzanine.

(It’s rare to see an Qunari, let alone an elf  _and_ a dwarf, on the outskirt of the realm’s capital. Odin was a staunch critic of the mingling of blood – he preferred Asgardians, through and through, and didn’t show any shame in his blatant disregard for the other races who’d come to call this realm home.)

It’s the Qunari that begins the crooning tune that gains the patrons’ attention, leaving you to attempt to shift unnoticed by the guards moving ever closer to your position. You needed to get out of here.

“Oh, dear barkeep,” the slate colored giant begins, voice dipping low into a cheerful bellow, “Bossum a plenty!”

“What’s y’name? Jenny?” the Dwarf slurs, shooting the bartender in question a sly look, only to walloped upside the head by the blonde elf beside him. The action raises laughter across the mezzanine, and the guards seem to be distracted for the time being. 

You can see a scowl of disgust fleet across the Guard Captain’s face.

“Nevermind her name,  _you idiot_  –” the Elf hisses, voice flying into a smooth crescendo, “We come from afar, you see, to sing for your bar! I, your elf-in-waiting –

“– and I, a gentle soul lute-ing–”

“They’re both mighty frustra _aaaating_.”

The Dwarf is served a look which he easily shrugs off. You smother an amused grin, eyes caught on the trio as the rest of the tavern seems just as equally enraptured. It’s hard not to stare at the comedic timing playing out on the center of the balcony.

“They call us the bastards three!”

“Gods, I have to pee –”

_ “Oi!” _

The lute’s last note is a shrill breakage of a chord at the shout of the royal guard; the Qunari freezes, eyes widening at the sight of the golden armored men encroaching on the performers’ circle. There’s a moment of silence.

And, then, the elf clears his throat.

“Good day, sir,” a gentile bow, “How may we help you?”

“Bastards three, eh?” the guard’s voice echoes in his helmet, “Sounds awfully familiar – sure you’re not them  _Maleficent Bastards_ , then?”

“Who? Us? Those… Those… thieves? Psh. No –”

“– It’s actually The  _Magnificent_  Bastards, officer.”

The horrified look on the Qunari’s face gives it all away, and the Dwarf is walloped upside the head again by the elf. The red-bearded drunk stumbles, plastered, and falls from the table with a heavy  _fwop_.

The group of guards breaks into cheerful laughter. “Look at that boys! Two warrants served in one night… Lady Sif will be  _most_ pleased.”

“ _Two_ … warrants?” the elf questions, wringing his hands.

“We’re looking for a woman. This tall,” the guard captain motions with his hands as he turns to address the crowd. His voice bellows across the tavern, “She’s wanted by the crown, one of Gamli’s daughters –”

You freeze, halfway to the stairs.

The name alone raises murmurs across the tavern, and yet no one moves, a bit too enthralled with their gossip and struck up on the code of no snitching. That name, Gamli, is notorious among the rag-tag sort out here. Your chest swells in pride for a moment at the mention of your father and the wide-eyed looks that follow.

After a moment of morally-aforementioned-agreed silence, the captain digs into his pack and musters a small coin purse. Eyes beneath the golden helmet scan the crowd, fist raised. The coin purse jingles.

“There’s a  _reward_ for her capture!”

The pride is gone and you’re cursing your father in his grave.

You are so quickly shoved to the front of the circle you nearly topple over – your eyes are wide under the glare of the Captain you’d not-so-kindly kicked in the face. Dirt is smeared across his jaw, brows set in anger. His helmet is dented, scuffed from the impact of her boot.

He scoffs, grabbing you by the upper arm roughly.

“Not so quick  _now_ , huh, girl?” he motions behind him, “Gather the three. They’ve got quite the bounty on their heads.”

There’s a beat of a moment then, when, the Bastards Three decide…  _not today._

The Qunari gives you a look, and before you can even question what he’s doing, you’re being tossed a lute. You wrangle from the grip of the captain, blinking down at the instrument in your grip before you swing hard with two hands, clocking the captain upside the jaw and shattering the instrument.

The tavern is fast to scatter into a massive brawl.

In the midst of it all, you’re ducking and dodging and leaping over tables to try and get out of the fray. You make a break for the stairwell, only to skid to a stop as the roaring Qunari throttles a punch into the face of a guard, knocking him back over the banister and down into the tables below the balcony.

The guard lands flat in the middle of a table, groaning as the tavern erupts into jeers of excitement as two men knock tankards over him.

The Qunari is quick to pluck his Dwarven friend from the clutches of a gaggle of scared working ladies.  _“Time to go, Taegan!”_

You spin, spying the elf making a close on their spot by the stairs; before you can protest, you’re quickly dragged down the flight by the huge hand of the Qunari as guards shout over the fight, trying to grab the quartet.

“Come on!” he shouts, muscling you towards the back exit of the tavern, “Us bastards gotta stick together!”

And that’s how you became so suddenly inducted into the traveling troupe of thieves who called themselves the Magnificent Bastards.

They were an interesting bunch; the Qunari, Jarak, was more of a gentle giant than anything, really. He had a penchant for the lute and story-telling and he very much loved his friends – he got along swimmingly with you, excited to have a more feminine touch around camp. His tent was the biggest, as the Tal-Vosoth’s horns mimicked that of a bull. They were chipped in places, but never failed to make doorways difficult and intimidation easy.

Taegan Cormyth, the resident high-elf, was a bit of an ass. But, you guess it was to be expected from a disgraced noble trying to make his own way. The blonde archer was… a child, really. Aside from being womanizing and stubborn and self-absorbed, the elf had muscled his way into a faux-leadership position which typically led to more trouble than it was worth.

Ogras Dragonbow, the wise (and usually drunk) Dwarf, made it his job to give Taegan a hard time which usually made for a good amount of laughs around the campfire. You liked the Dwarf – and though he hinted at a darker past than the others, you never asked when brought him to this little traveling troupe in the first place.

The whole Wulfshead-Tavern-Incident was a year and a half ago.

Currently, you’re hunched over a single ring of gold as Jarak stokes the fire. To your sides, Ogras and Taegan watch as you plant your hands on your hips and tut.

“S’magic, innit?”

“It is,” Taegan says, eyes never leaving the ring, “Y’think it’s cursed?”

“I doubt it,” you hum, squatting and prodding at it with a stick. You’d previously been wearing it, until the ring suddenly flared up with such a biting sort of heat you’d screeched and leapt from your horse, chucking the ring from your hand and into the undergrowth on the way back to camp.

You’d all then spent an hour combing the bushes to find it, much to everyone’s dismay.

You poke it again.

Nothing.

“Maybe it’s not meant to be worn,” Jarak offers politely, settling in by the fire and beginning to skin the rabbit he’d caught earlier for dinner, “Maybe it’s just for  _show_.”

“Odin commissioned a  _trophy ring?”_

Jarak waves his hand (in turn, waving the filleted rabbit carcass), “I dunno, he’s a king. Isn’t that, like, a  _king_ thing?”

“Trophy rings?” Taegan’s face morphs into confusion.

He looks to you for guidance. You simply shrug.

It’s Ogras’ turn to squat and inspect now, and the Dwarf makes a small _‘ah-hah!’_ sound after a moment.

“S’got Dwarven runes onnit, i’does,” he croons, moving to muscle one single monocle from the travel pack below his broad, gold cuirasse. It’s comically small in his meaty hands. He holds it up to his eye, laying flat on the ground and eyeing the ring closely, “Says ‘ere it’s name is  _draupnir_.”

By the fire, Jarak lets out a low rumble. “Who names a  _ring_?”

Taegan scoffs. “Kings, apparently.”

“It’s a  _magic_ ring,” you remind gently,  _“Of course_  it’s got a name.”

“Says ‘ _smithed by Brokkr & Eitri, a gift to the glorious and all powerful Odin as repayment for your gracious protection to our village and mines. We thank you’_.”

Your jaw falls.

Jarak makes a surprised sound. “Woah, woah, woah. Did we steal someone’s protection money?”

“Oof.”

Ogras mimics Taegan’s  _oof._

“ _Magic_ protection money,” you mutter, hands on your hips again.

“Shit.”

* * *

“I say we lie.”

Loki watches as his brother drops his head into his hands as they begin to near on the capital’s walls – a top his horse, the God of Mischief spares his brother a side-eye, dark brow quirked as the amble on. The blonde, it seems, is in the midst of a moral dilemma.

Loki’s thankful his threshold is high for those.

Thor is lost in thought and it’s awfully painful to watch – Loki can practically hear the gears in his head turning. Not to say Thor is dim-witted… but, he’s never been the thinker of the family.

“We can’t lie!” Thor finally bellows, tossing a hand as his other grips the reins, “Father will know.”

“Then we tell the truth,” a shrug, “We were robbed along the trail –”

“We can’t do that  _either!_ ” the blonde cries, giving Loki a pained look from his perch upon his steed, “And since  _when_ have you ever been a proponent of telling the truth, Loki?”

Loki presses his hand to his chest, matching Thor’s canter. “Well, it wouldn’t be the whole truth, of course –”

“Father sent us to Svartalfheim to retrieve Brokkr and Eitri’s payment for a reason,” Thor begins, “He wants to trust us, wants to see that we can carry out duties of the crown – And those  _mean bastards_ stole draupnir. They  _stole it._ ”

“ _Magnificence Bastards.”_  


“Whatever.”  


Loki’s face falls as the rant continues. He rolls his eyes. “Brother – you are completely neglecting the fact we  _have_ the fake. We simply tell father it is the real one. Problem solved.”

Thor pouts.

“Everything will be fine,” Loki breathes, “Just leave it to me.”

It’s not a good idea, but what else could they do?


End file.
